The lock slammed on the door to the private hell she’d just created for herself. She’d spent her whole life avoiding becoming trapped by her circumstances the way her mother had. Wooed by a Swiss millionaire on a spring break trip in college and whisked from her modest home in the Carolinas to a mansion tucked between the Alps and Lake Geneva, her mother had been helpless when the dream had turned into a nightmare.
And now here she was, accepting a job offer, money, allowing herself to become a kept woman.
You’re not your mother.Much as she’d loved her mom, what Lila Smythe lacked in strength and determination, Calandra had more than made up for over the years. Yes, she had to hand over a little bit of power now. But she would prevail.
“Scared, Calandra?”
His voice, so deep and yet so silky, so dangerous, wrapped around her, tantalizing, tempting, seducing.
She didn’t immediately answer, because yes, she was scared, terrified even, that after only one night together he still stirred such longing in her. Time and experience had taught her that men like Alejandro were fun, until they weren’t. Her child would grow up without the pain that had been her constant companions through childhood.
Which meant keeping men like Alejandro at arm’s length.
Or an ocean’s length, she thought as Alejandro took another step, the heat from his body kissing her skin.
What had she just done?
He leaned in. She stayed still, hand clutched around the railing of the Eiffel Tower like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reason. She would not back down, would not succumb.
“Don’t be scared.” His smile deepened. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
CALANDRASTRODETOWARDthe double doors of her boutique bed-and-breakfast. Beyond the glass and down the boulevard, the stone walls and elegant pillars of the entrance to the Louvre stood tall and proud.
Museums and tourist spots, from the Statue of Liberty in New York to the Eiffel Tower, had failed to pique her interest in the past. They were notable only in that others liked them, dreamed of them, crafted entire trips around seeing a monument. She’d worked plenty of icons into her events because the guests appreciated them—it had been good business, even if she’d failed to see the allure.
Yet when she stood on the deck of the Eiffel Tower yesterday, she’d meant what she had said to Alejandro. Some might say the magic of Paris had worked its way into her blood. Or perhaps she was just embracing the prospect of motherhood more as her waistline slowly but steadily expanded.
Whatever the reason, the thought of seeing her child squeal in delight as they saw Paris laid out before them filled her with a maternal warmth.
That she’d briefly entertained an image of Alejandro standing next to her, one hand intimately entwined with hers and the other on their child’s shoulder, had irritated her.
Weak. Foolish.
She steeled her spine as her heels clicked on the wood floors. One week. One week to do a job that might reopen all the doors that had been slammed shut because of her brief but disastrous foray into the world of emotions.
One week to let Alejandro live out whatever fantasy he’d concocted of being involved. At the first sign of morning sickness or a reminder of how little sleep new parents achieved, he’d be gone.
The possibility that he would stick around frightened her in more ways than one.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the warm French sunshine, a bag hanging from her shoulder and a suitcase in hand. A couple stops on the Metro and she’d be at the station in plenty of time to catch her train to Marseille. Unexpected anticipation lent a barely discernible bounce to her step. Even without a job keeping her tied to a rigorous schedule, she’d spent her weeks editing her résumé, following up on job leads and staying busy. As always.
An uninterrupted train ride through the French countryside sounded like heaven.
“Mademoiselle Smythe?”
Calandra’s head snapped up. A young man stood in front of her, dressed in a dark gray suit with a navy tie. Almost as young as Johanna, but with a much more serious air. A sleek black limo stood behind him, windows tinted so dark she couldn’t see the interior.
“Who are you?”
The man bowed his head. “Your chauffeur.”
“I didn’t order a car.”
“Monsieur Cabrera did, mademoiselle, with his compliments.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. Suspicion slithered up her spine as she barely bit back the retort that rose in her throat.